Pure
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Sam and Dean stumble across an evil they couldn't have imagined, and see how screwed up family can really be...rated for language and later gore.
1. Prologue

_Please review, and no, I don't own Supernatural or the boys. And as always, I answer all reviews at my blog._

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**Be near me when my light is low,**

**When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick**

**And tingle; and the heart is sick,**

**And all the wheels of Being slow.**

**Be near me when I fade away**

**To point the term of human strife,**

**And on the low dark verge of life**

**The twilight of eternal day.**

**-Alfred Lord Tennyson**

Blood runs thick down her whitening limb, leaving glistening scarlet trails as perfect maroon orbs drop silently to the floor.

So much blood.

How can he do this? Doesn't he love her? Hasn't he always said that he would protect her? She has never doubted him, has always trusted him.

And now this.

She wants to cry, to weep, to scream, but weakness has sapped the strength from her very bones, and all she can summon is a wordless moan. She can feel their eyes on her, their empty eyes, their soulless eyes. They're glorying in this, in her weakness, in her pain.

Hadn't she always given freely, bled for them willingly? But now they are taking too much…they're bleeding her dry, letting her life pool and run across the rugged wooden floorboards. They're making no move to quell the flow, to help her, to save her. They're only standing. Only looking.

The heat of the blood striping her arms contrasts against the cold chills that are racking through her body with uneven, tooth-jarring shivers. Twin tears trace their way across her cheekbones to soak the hair by her ears. Her eyes search for him, trying to find him, to plead with him not to do this. She finds his grim and deeply lined face. He meets her gaze with no apology, no sadness. There is only a hard glint in his eyes.

She realizes then, as her vision fades to a dimming pinpoint, that he will not save her. He will watch, expressionless, as her life drains out, as her breaths turn shallow and then still. He will let her die.


	2. Chapter 1

**On we go...please review, and all that...**

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Sam sat bolt upright with a gasp, his hands grasping compulsively at the motel sheets. His eyes panged with a sudden ache as the rays of the morning sun struck his face, and he ran his palm across them with a muffled groan. It seemed like ages since he had dreamed of Jess, dreamed of her pinned to the ceiling, white nightgown clinging to her body in an obscene parody of sexiness, as her blood dripped down to his face. But every once in a while, the dream snuck up on him and woke him with a jackhammer heartbeat. It felt like he could never be free of the memory. Hell of a way to start a day.

A quick scan of the room revealed Dean's still form on the other twin bed, bare legs crazily entwined in the floral comforter. His right hand was under his pillow, and Sam saw the muscles in his forearm tighten. "You okay, Sammy?" Dean spoke without turning over, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah. M'okay." Sam took a deep breath and swung his coltish legs over the edge of the bed, scrubbing his toes over the uneven tufts of orange and red shag carpet. Dean stretched languidly, like a cat, his hand emerging from beneath the pillow grasping a wicked-looking blade. Sam shook his head a little. "Dude, you need help." He chucked a pillow in Dean's general direction.

Dean deflected the feathery missile with a casual wave of his arm, and sheathed the knife. "You know me, stab first, ask questions later." He stood and stretched, giving a little yelp of satisfaction as he popped the kinks out of his back, then shuffled to the bathroom, unabashedly giving his ass a good-morning-scratch. He shut the door a little harder than necessary, drawing a wince from Sam. As Dean turned the shower on, the plumbing began to shriek and vibrate, and Sam groaned.

He needed fresh air, needed caffeine, needed a moment of quiet to banish the dream from his brain. He stepped into a pair of relatively clean jeans and lifted a t-shirt to his face for a sniff-test, which it passed. Barely. As he tied his tennis shoes, he hopped sideways to the bathroom door and drummed on it with his fist.

"Who _is _it?" came a falsetto voice from within.

"Goin' for coffee."

"Black for me. No cream or sugar, and no pussy flavors, Alice." Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, then decided to make himself feel better by swiping cash from Dean's jeans. He stepped out of the room, being careful not to scatter the salt line. Out of habit, he jiggled the door handle once or twice to ensure it had locked behind him.

The spring breeze nipped color into Sam's cheeks as he strode across the street to a run-down diner. Flickering neon signs advertised _Breakfast – The Best Way to Start Your Day _and _Coffee – Hot and Steamy Dark and Dreamy._ Two tarnished brass bellsdinged as he opened the door, and he was greeted by the ubiquitous scent of Diner Food. The sole waitress, a matronly bottle blonde, clucked around him, trying to convince him that he was far too thin and that only a good biscuit-'n-gravy breakfast could save him. She pursed her lipsticked mouth when he ordered only two coffees, one with milk and sugar, the other black, as God intended. With practiced indifference she plied her coffee pot, filling each Styrofoam cup to near overflowing. Sam offered up two crumpled dollar bills, but she turned her nose up at them. With a backward glance toward the wall-eyed fry cook, she swiftly wrapped two monstrous blueberry muffins in paper napkins and slid them across the counter to Sam. He rewarded her with a high-watt smile and she tittered in an embarrassed way, shooing him out the door.

Sam spotted a newspaper-box and stopped, juggling the coffees to dig two quarters out of his jeans. He tucked the folded paper under an arm and hurried to the door of the motel room. He tried to reach for the knob but nearly lost both coffees, so instead he gave the door two quick kicks with the toe of his sneaker. He heard his brother grumbling inside, "Keep your panties on, I'm coming."

The door flew open so quickly that Sam jumped, then gave a little squeal of pain as heat exploded around his fingers. He looked down to find a crushed Styrofoam cup in his hand and coffee dripping down the front of his shirt, scalding his chest.

"Dude, you're supposed to drink it, not wear it," Dean said dryly, taking the other cup of coffee from Sam. "Hope that wasn't mine." Sam growled as he shook coffee from the newspaper and wiped a few drops from his chin. He tossed the muffins at Dean, who caught them one-handed and set one of them atop the television. The other he unwrapped and devoured immediately, dropping crumbs down his chest.

Sam dropped to a seat on the bed, ignoring the protesting squeal of the springs, and opened the now-soggy newspaper. He scanned the headlines in a perfunctory way, trying to ignore Dean, who had propped his feet up on the bed and was attempting to do one-armed pushups. But then something caught Sam's eye.

"Hey Dean, take a look at this." Sam folded the newspaper over and tapped it with his index finger.

Dean scrambled to his feet, dusting motel-carpet grit from his palms, and took the paper. He squinted down at it. "'Marjorie Jenkins Named Corn Festival Queen'? Fascinating."

"Not that, ass-clown." Sam stood and pointed to the article in question. "'Vandalia Girl, 16, Drained of Blood; Coroner's Investigation Ongoing.'"

"Hmm." Dean pushed out his lower lip and raised his eyebrows. "Vampires?"

"Maybe. But vampires don't usually drain their victims altogether. And I haven't heard of any nest activity in these parts." Sam snatched his laptop and waited impatiently for it to boot up. "If it is, then this is their first kill around here." He began typing rapidly, scanning the Internet for any related news. "Sounds more like ritual behavior to me."

"But definitely down our alley." Dean flipped the paper over. "I don't think Vandalia's far from here, it's worth checking out."

"My thoughts exactly," Sam replied absently. He typed_ 'colorado girl drained of blood' _into the search engine and tapped his fingernail on the side of the screen, waiting for results. "Dude, can you imagine if anybody ever checked our browser history?"

"What's a browser history?" Dean was seated on his own bed, tracing his finger over a road map, searching for the best route to Vandalia.

"Never mind." Sam shook his head. "How you managed while I was at school is completely beyond me."

"Hey, I can research too, you know. Just 'cause I don't play dungeons and dragons and pick up ugly fat girls online," protested Dean, flicking a pen cap at Sam.

"Just shut up, dude." Sam started clicking through search results, already beginning to tune his brother out. "Pack up and let's hit the road."

Dean stared at Sam for a long moment, wanting nothing more than to tackle his brainiac brother and take him down a peg. _Pick your battles, Dean. Payback's best served cold. Or whatever._

Less than fifteen minutes later, the bottle-blonde waitress watched sadly as a shining black muscle car carried her cute little puppy-eyed boy out of town.


	3. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the wait on the update...life has a way of reminding you of the important things, you know? Please review...**

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Anyone walking by would have taken them for guards on patrol. But if they had looked closer, they would have seen one man crouched at the door, fiddling with the lock. The other stood watch, a flashlight in one hand and a small pistol in the other.

"Hurry up!" Dean stood over Sam, gimlet-eyed. "The guard will be back through any second."

Annoyed, Sam thrust an elbow backward, jamming it into Dean's thigh. "Keep your drawers on, dude." With one last flick of his wrist, he heard the lock pop open, and he quickly slipped inside. Dean brushed by him roughly, rubbing his thigh and glowering.

Sam flicked his flashlight on and shone it around slowly. The room was still and quiet, with that strange echoing silence only found in a morgue. The brothers' footsteps 'pocking' faintly on the dingy tile floor were the only sounds. The sweet tang of formaldehyde was thick in the air, thick enough that Sam's stomach did a back flip.

Dean stopped to bend over a lopsided wooden desk, brushing aside a banana, the half-eaten remains of a jam sandwich, and an empty soda bottle. "What a slob." He popped his flashlight into his mouth and began to flip through the register, running a finger over the neatly penciled entries. "Got it," he garbled around the flashlight, and tapped his hand against an entry. "G-4."

Sam ran his light across the long wall of sterling steel drawers, each bearing a handwritten tag. Finding the correct door, he pulled it open and, with a heave, hauled the heavy drawer out into the glow of his flashlight. With it came an onslaught of formaldehyde stink, and Sam squinted, mouth puckering against the smell.

The corpse was covered with the standard white hospital sheet, a gentle rise and fall under the cotton fabric that was unmistakable. Sam took a breath and pulled the sheet back.

The corpse's face was waxy pale, framed by a shaggy crop of dark curls. There were no signs of trauma, other than a smear of blood beside her eye. On each arm there was a long, gory incision, laying open the flesh from elbow to wrist. Sam's mouth tightened as he looked back at the girl's face. There wasn't any fear there, or any pain. But there must have been, in her last moments.

An odd smell drifted into Sam's nostrils and he looked over to see Dean munching on a banana. "Dude," he sighed.

"What?" Dean mumbled around his mouthful. Sam stared at him for a long moment, the skin between his eyebrows crinkling into a living question mark, then turned back to the corpse.

Dean stepped closer, bending to inspect the girl's face. He squinted, still chewing, and Sam could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Then Dean lifted an eyebrow. He took a corner of the sheet and smoothed it across the blood by the girl's eye. The other eyebrow rose. "Hey Sammy, look at this."

As Dean scrubbed the dried blood away from her face, the dusky blue hue of a tattoo faded into view. Sam leaned closer. It was a sigil, an intricate mark of lore, but one that he didn't recognize. "You seen that before?" asked Sam.

Dean set his jaw. "Seems like I have, but I can't place where. But I'd say that pretty much settles it…we're dealing with ritualism here, not vampires."

Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of the tattoo. "So a coven then?"

"Maybe. Obviously there was a major blood ritual, and she was the lucky winner." Dean cocked his head. His eyes roved across the girl's face, then were drawn back to the sigil. "Where have I seen that?" He asked the question aloud, but it wasn't for Sam. He wrinkled his nose, thinking hard.

Sam pulled the sheet back up to cover the girl's face. "We'll head back, email the picture to Bobby and Stella. Maybe one of them will know what it is." He shivered as a sudden chill of cold air wafted across the back of his neck.

"Um, Sammy?" The tone in Dean's voice was enough to send Sam's nerves onto high alert. He turned to meet Dean's eye, then followed his brother's gaze across the room.

There she was. More a shadow than a girl, but it was unmistakably her. The sigil tattoo glowed like a dark fire next to her eye, and she looked balefully at the brothers, silent and reproachful. Her pale white hand rested against the edge of one of the steel autopsy tables.

"What the hell is she doing here?" whispered Sam.

"Trying to tell us somethin', that's what." Dean lowered his head, staring right into the spirit's eyes. "Ghosts don't stay attached to their bodies. She should be hanging out where they ganked her, not chilling out at the morgue. She's here for a reason."

Without speaking a word, the girl blinked once, and then faded slowly, almost imperceptibly, until all that remained was a dissipating silver mist. Glancing at one another, Sam and Dean moved forward, eyes searching, skin prickling with residual energy from her passing.

Dean's eyebrow quirked as his eyes fell on the autopsy table. He elbowed Sam in the side and jerked his chin once. Sam looked down. Condensation had gathered in dewy drops on the steel of the table, drawn from the chill of the spirit's presence. In the condensation a sentence was scrawled in shaky letters. _Elijah bled me._

"Well, well." Dean sucked his teeth for a moment. "Looks like our girl has an agenda."

Sam leaned closer to the table, squinting at the words. "So who or what is Elijah?"

"Our first lead, that's who." Dean finished off his banana. "And I know where to find him." Grasping Sam's shirtsleeve, Dean led him back to the girl's body. Lifting the sheet from the feet of the corpse, he tapped his index finger against the toe-tag.

Sam bent closer to read it. "Persephone Killian. Next of kin…"

"Elijah Killian," finished Dean. "Daddy has some explaining to do."


	4. Chapter 3

**I am a bad, horrible person. Sorry it took so long to update...life sometimes eats my time...I'll try very hard to update soon. Thanks to all!**

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Dean gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the tapping of Sam's fingers on the laptop keys. He reached forward and hiked the volume of the radio, trying to drown it out. But even the music couldn't stop the dull throb behind his temples, where he was wracking his brain. _I know I've seen that mark before…_

"Huh." Sam's exclamation drew Dean's eyes. "Looks like the Killian family was mixed up with some type of commune." He squinted at the screen. "They were living on a compound just outside town in some kind of hippie haven."

"Hippies or a coven?" Dean asked, turning the volume back down.

Sam pushed out his lower lip in a contemplative pout. "Well, given the ritual nature of the death, I'd say coven."

"I don't know what's worse. Hippies or witches," Dean grumbled. "But it still doesn't explain the tattoo. Where the hell have I seen that mark before? And what kind of name is Persephone, anyway?"

"Queen of the underworld," replied Sam mindlessly, still tapping away on the laptop.

"Yeah, _that's _normal," snorted Dean.

Sam's cell phone chirped and he snatched it from his pocket, glancing at the display. "It's Stella." He flipped the phone open, thumbing the button for the speakerphone. "Hello?"

Stella's tinny voice rang out from the speaker. "Sam?" She didn't wait for a reply. "That rune that you emailed me…it's an old Celtic sigil, signifies purity."

"Purity?" Sam glanced at Dean, who smacked a palm on his forehead and rolled his eyes as though it had been obvious all along. "What does it mean?"

"Well, I can't say for sure, bub. But stop and think for a second about occultic behavior. What sort of blood is considered the most powerful ritualistically?"

"Virgin's blood," replied Sam, then his eyes grew wide. "Holy shit."

"So these sickos are bleeding their virgin girls for rituals," growled Dean. "The tattoo is a status symbol, to tell the tribe that she's hands-off. That's where I've seen the mark, on Celtic blood cups."

"But why kill her? Those rituals only require a little bit of blood; they bled her dry." Sam swallowed hard, trying not to let his sudden nausea show in his face.

Stella's voice crackled over the phone. "Well, I'm thinking that these folks are following some very old occult rituals of the Hellfire Club. Tradition requires that if a chosen virgin defiles her blood, she's gotta be emptied. Punished for taking away the supply. Blood of that ritual was considered more powerful than anything."

"Jesus," breathed Sam.

"But I thought Hellfire Clubs were just about kinky sex," protested Dean. "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"Most of them were. But some of them took things to the next level…used hoodoo and black magic to spice things up, then sort of went off the edge into hardcore craft. Sounds like this might be the same sort of deal."

"Not hippies," muttered Sam. "Thanks, Stell." He flipped the phone shut and tossed it into the backseat with a little more force than necessary. "Humans are worse than demons, man. This is crazy."

Dean thumped a fist on the steering wheel, knuckles white. "Her dad, man. Her dad stood there and let them kill her, just because she lost her cherry."

"What are we gonna do, though?" Sam twisted in his seat to look at his brother. "They're humans. We can't just go in there and blow them away."

"Why not?" Dean's mouth was set in a grim line, but when Sam opened his mouth, Dean waved the answer away. "I know, I know, we can't kill human beings, blah blah blah."

"But is this really our type of job? Don't you think that the cops will be able to take care of this?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah right." He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. "Let's just sniff around a little bit. I'm worried about what kind of mojo they're working with virgin blood." The wheels of the Impala ground out a grumble as Dean pulled off the road onto a two-track drive. Ahead through the trees, Sam could see a tall stockade fence, the wood gray and pitted with age.

Dean stepped on the brake and guided the Impala to a halt in the weeds along the side of the road. "Well, they're security conscious at least."

"Can't have the neighbors seeing your blood rituals, after all," Sam agreed. Dean unfolded himself from the driver's seat and jogged up to the fence. He looked it up and down once, then stepped back a few feet. He then took a running leap and caught the top of the fence, scrambling with his toes until he could pull himself up high enough to peer over the top.

In a split second, before Dean could even twitch, much less holler, two sets of hands shot up from the other side of the fence, grasped his wrists, and yanked. He flew, ass over teakettle, legs flailing, out of sight.

Sam was out of the car in a flash, heart hammering in his chest as he sprinted for the fence. But just as he planted his foot to leap, a terrible pain exploded across his knee and he crumpled with a roar.

When the stars cleared from his vision, he saw a husky man standing over him with a dinged up metal baseball bat. "Hands behind your head, stranger." With a groan, Sam laced his fingers behind his head, trying to breathe through the throbbing agony in his knee.

He didn't have time to feel the bat crash into the back of his skull.


	5. Chapter 4

**I'm sorry for the long wait on updates. Things have been busy and I've been distracted...but I'm back now, hopefully with a vengeance. Please review! **

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Sharp, throbbing pain spiraled in, tighter and tighter in a whirlpool swirl of white light. It spun faster and faster, strobing brighter and brighter until it was just a pulsing, blinding light.

Sam surfaced through the pain into consciousness with a gasp and a choke. He could taste copper on his tongue and he gagged against it, spitting out a clot of blood. He could feel that one eye was swollen shut, throbbing with his pulse. As he moved, trying to roll onto his side, another spasm of pain rocketed from the base of his skull up through his brain and he moaned, fighting the urge to roll into the fetal position.

He swallowed down a spasm of nausea, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to order his body back into compliance. He moved to touch the back of his neck, to press the bruise he could feel pulsing there, but was shocked to stillness as he realized that his hands were cuffed. He opened his good eye to see that the cuffs were linked with a long length of rusting chain, which was in turn cuffed to an eyebolt in the wall.

He groaned again, blinking sandpaper eyelids a few times to clear his good eye, and cast a slow glance around the room. The only sound was the ringing in his ears. The room was dark and dank, a concrete block pillbox with a packed-dirt floor. Streaks of dark moisture crawled down the walls, edged with gray mold. The only light was that which could filter from the rotted cracks in the plywood ceiling. From somewhere behind Sam there came the sound of a rasping, catching breath.

A pang seized Sam's chest and stopped his breath. _Dean. _Sam looked wildly about, his vision blurring from the pain in his head, then gave a hitching gasp. Dean lay in an untidy pile in the corner, arms and legs folding crazily over themselves. Sam stuck his tongue into his cheek to stop a shriek that threatened to blast from his mouth like a shrill train whistle. Sam scrambled toward Dean, heart hammering, knees scraping on the gravel and dirt.

He bent low over Dean, cocking his head to catch the sound of his brother's breath. The sound was uneven, raspy, wet. Sam gently rolled Dean's body toward him, into his arms, feeling sick as Dean's head lolled against his chest.

Dean's left cheekbone was swollen and mottled with berry-red and deep purple. A crust of dried blood streaked from his mouth to his chin, a rusty brown stain, and an ugly bruise was blooming on his temple. Another streak of blood traced the contours of his throat, seeping down to darken the collar of his shirt. Sam wondered with a strange disconnect if he looked as bad, and decided that he must if the pain in his head was any indication.

Dean's eyes were nearly closed, only a sliver of white and hazel glinting from beneath his lashes. Sam patted Dean's cheeks softly, trying to jostle him back to consciousness or at least to piss him off enough to wake up. Dean's eyelashes fluttered once, as if touched by a breeze, then drifted open to reveal a hazy, confused gaze. One corner of his mouth twitched up in a tiny, lopsided smirk. "Sam."

"Hey," Sam whispered, glancing toward the door, one ear half-listening for movement or voices outside. Dean blinked once, eyes unfocused, then his gaze settled on Sam's face.

"Where are we?" Dean's glazed eyes swept slowly, shakily, around the room. The tip of his tongue traced a slow path over his lower lip as he tried to summon moisture to his parched mouth. His gaze flickered back to Sam's face, blearily searching for clues. Sam shifted his weight and Dean winced, hissing back a cry of pain. "Shit," he rasped, one hand drifting to shakily brush his face. "My head…"

"They got the jump on us…" Sam took a moment to glance around the room again. "Don't know how long we've been out."

Dean closed his eyes, brow furrowing. "Who…who did? What happened?" He bit the words short, tightening his mouth around the pain.

Sam's stomach did a flip-flop. "The compound, Dean, the people who drained the girl of blood."

"The girl?"

Sam froze suddenly, his ears catching the sound of approaching footsteps. "Be quiet, Dean," he hissed, closing a hand tightly around his brother's wrist. With his other hand he patted his hip, reaching instinctively for the pistol he already knew wasn't there. As the door swung open, squealing on protesting hinges, Sam shifted, shielding Dean's body with his own.

A ray of light fell across Sam's face and he squinted against it, trying not to show the pain that was throbbing anew in his head. A tall man stepped into the room, clad in tight jeans and a flannel shirt, mother-of-pearl buttons shining in the light. He looked down at Sam, running a thumb over his rusty mustache.

"Mornin', boy," he drawled, mouth puckering in an unpleasant and decidedly dangerous way. "Hope everything was to your satisfaction."

"Room service never showed up." Sam allowed just a tinge of anger into his voice, enough to keep the man on edge. The man quirked a snarky smile, shadowed with danger. Sam conjured another smart-ass comment, but it froze on his tongue when he heard Dean give a wet cough and a moan. "Listen, man, my brother is hurt bad. Let's not turn this into something you'll regret. Just let us go and we'll walk away, you'll never see us again, I swear."

"Not gonna happen, boy," growled the man. "You poked your nose in business that didn't concern you. I know you was at the morgue. I know you was asking questions around town. You done got curious about the wrong folks." He scrubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair, frustration boiling just below the surface. "It's folks meddling in things that they got no business with that causes all these problems anyway. If them townies had just minded their own, Seph would still be alive."

Understanding dawned. "You're Elijah." The words escaped Sam before he could stop them, and he regretted them instantly. Elijah stared down at him with hard eyes. Sam edged backward, suddenly desperate to make some physical contact with his brother. His hand closed over the neckline of Dean's shirt and he gripped the fabric tightly, crushing it in his fingers. "You're right, we were snooping around. And I'm sorry. But please, at least let my brother go. You don't want this to turn to murder. I'll stay and you can do what you want, but let him go. "

"That's not gonna happen, boy. You wanted to find out about us, now you're gonna know." A slow smirk marred Elijah's face and sent a chill through Sam. "You know the sayin', you can't make an omelet without breakin' some eggs. Now on account of ya'll nosin' around where you don't belong, ya'll are gonna be the eggs."


	6. Chapter 5

**Do I have my mojo back? Perhaps...more reviews could tell me for sure...**

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Elijah took a step forward, boots scraping the dirt, and bent to reach for Dean. Sam tensed, bunching his hands into fists, all senses zeroing in on the man who was threatening his brother.

As Elijah's fingers brushed Dean's bicep, Sam sprang, driving his shoulder into Elijah's midsection. Elijah let out a 'woof' of air, stumbling backward, and Sam followed, landing a stunning punch across Elijah's temple. Elijah went down in a pile, cursing, and Sam leapt atop him, whipping his chain across Elijah's throat and yanking it backward. As Sam's thumb brushed Elijah's neck he could feel the throb of the man's pulse, beating like a frightened rabbit's.

Elijah clawed at Sam's face, making muffled choking sounds, but Sam only leaned back, pulling the chain as tight as he could. He braced his knee in the small of Elijah's back, leveraging his full weight against the chain. But just as it seemed the Elijah was on the edge of losing consciousness, the door crashed open and Sam found himself looking down the barrel of a cannon-like .45 pistol. He froze, slackening his grip on the chain. Elijah rocketed an elbow back into Sam's stomach, knocking the wind from him, then rolled to his knees, coughing and clutching his throat.

"You sunovabitch," he rasped, voice raw. He scrambled to his feet, bent nearly double with pain, and then launched a sharp kick that connected with a sickening sound to Sam's groin.

Sam retched, feeling his breakfast lurch inside him. He tipped to his side, drawing his knees to his chest and trying to breathe through the pain. He gagged again on the stomach acid creeping up his throat. "Why are you doing this?" he choked, voice rough with pain. "Your own daughter, you killed your own daughter…" Elijah silenced him with a heavy blow to the face.

"Shut your mouth about things you ain't got any idea on!" Elijah's face contorted with fury, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth as he shouted. "I loved that girl, but rules is rules! She done wrong, and she done paid for it!" Sam was shocked to see a sheen of tears in the screaming man's eyes.

"You don't have to do this…" Sam's voice was low, pleading. "This doesn't have to escalate…it's over and done, don't make it worse."

"Shut up." Elijah drew himself up straight and tall to his full height. He glared down at Sam as though daring him to intervene, then stooped and snatched Dean's wrist. Dean moaned and flailed ineffectually, unable to get his limbs to cooperate. Sam could see that his brother was fighting unconsciousness, but it was a losing battle.

"Please don't…" Sam lunged toward Elijah again, but the click of a hammer being drawn back stopped him. He glanced to the side and was met with the barrel of a .45 grazing his temple. "Please." Sam looked back at Elijah, trying to appeal to the man who had come close to tears only seconds before. "Please."

"Keep an eye on him, Sully." Elijah did not look at Sam, instead dragging Dean by the wrist toward the door. Sam lurched again, desperate to get to Dean, but Sully cracked him across the bridge of the nose with the butt of the pistol. Sam fell back, stars reeling in his eyes. He could feel a trickle of blood tracking from his nose down to his chin and he spat, sending a spray of red toward Sully.

Sam sat still on the dirt floor, panting and blinking. He glanced up at his guard, peering through the hair that was falling into his eyes, ropy with blood. "Sully." The man did not reply, only narrowed his eyes. "You don't have to do this. This is only going to make things worse."

"You need to shut your mouth, boy. You got no power here." Sully's brow furrowed into an irritated scowl. "If folks would keep their noses to themselves none of this would have happened."

The door creaked open and Sully turned, eyes alert like a falcon, raising the pistol toward the newcomer. A young girl, maybe fourteen at most, slipped inside and moved silently to Sully's side. She stretched to her tiptoes and murmured quietly in his ear. He glanced at Sam, and then holstered his gun. "Stay away from him, Colleen. If he gets froggy, you blow your whistle and I'll come runnin'." Sully plucked at a silver chain around the girl's neck, from which there dangled a tarnished whistle. With one last glowering glare at Sam, Sully left the room, pulling the door shut behind him with an authoritative slam.

Sam looked Colleen over, hiding his gaze behind his hair. The girl was dressed in a long sleeved dress, the hem of which fell all the way to her ankles. The high collar buttoned tight under her chin. Her dark hair was drawn into a thick, heavy bun. She regarded him with frightened eyes.

"Hi, Colleen. I'm Sam." At Sam's words, the girl jumped and backed toward the door, her hand clutching at the whistle around her neck. Sam held his hands up in a gesture of supplication. "It's okay, I'm not going to do anything." He settled to a seat against the wall, tucking himself into the corner furthest from her. "I just wanted to tell you my name."

The girl pressed her back against the door, eying Sam suspiciously. Sam took a moment to touch the bridge of his nose, assessing the damage done by Sully's assault. "I don't suppose you have something I can clean this blood up with, do you?" Colleen stared at him for a long moment, then hesitantly retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket. She crumpled it in her fist and tossed it to Sam. He ran it over his face, a bit concerned about how much blood came away. "I guess I look pretty bad, huh?"

Colleen nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Sam's face. The fear had lessened, but she was still wary as a trapped animal. Sam swallowed hard, trying to ignore the copper taste of blood in his throat. "The other man who was here with me, that's my brother. Do you know where they're taking him?"

A shake of the head.

"I'm worried about him, Colleen. I need to know if he's okay. Do you have any sisters or brothers?"

Sam was shocked when a swell of tears bloomed in Colleen's eyes. She dashed at them with the back of her hand, seeming a bit embarrassed. Suddenly, Sam understood and his jaw dropped. "Persephone was your sister." A little gasping sob escaped Colleen and she pressed a palm over her mouth. Sam's heart sank. "Colleen, I have to help my brother. I can't let them hurt him, do you understand? Can you help me?"

The girl shook her head, fear joining the tears in her eyes.

"I know it's scary…but what happened to your sister wasn't right. You know that." Sam kept his voice gentle, calm. "We can't let them hurt my brother, too. Please."

Colleen did not reply, but slowly sank to a seat, Indian-style, against the door. Sam sighed. It seemed that there was nothing to do but wait.


	7. Chapter 6

**Sorry that updates have been taking so long...between a monster head cold and lots of training seminars for work, it's been a struggle lately. Please review, give me reasons to continue. :)**

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Dean did his best to fight, to escape from Elijah's grip, which pinched like steel around his wrist, but he couldn't seem to get his body to cooperate. The best he could do was flail ineffectually and eventually he just gave up, going limp and letting himself be dragged along the ground like a sack of potatoes. Dean's mind was foggy, clouded with pain and confusion. All he knew for certain was that they were separating him from Sam, and he damned well didn't like it.

He lashed out with all the force he could muster, catching Elijah in the back of the knee with his fist. Elijah stumbled with a curse. He turned, eyes blazing, and landed a stinging punch to Dean's temple. Dean sagged back, head spinning. He gave a retching cough and winced as he tasted blood. He went limp and allowed himself to be dragged along, figuring at least he could tire his captor a bit.

Now puffing with exertion, Elijah dragged Dean into a ramshackle shed, which was constructed of scrap plywood and broken two-by-fours. A busted-up potbelly stove listed slightly to port in the corner, occasionally belching out little puffs of smoke. Elijah dropped Dean's arm in the dirt and shoved him roughly with his foot. "Don't you move, boy," he ordered. He stepped backward to the door, still eyeing Dean with anger. "Colleen!" he bellowed.

After a moment a young girl, dark-haired and with a constellation of freckles scattered across her nose, appeared at the door. "Go get Sully for me." The girl regarded Dean for a few seconds, eyes wide, then turned and trotted away.

"We're peaceful folk here. Been here 15 years and never had no problems with nobody, never hurt nobody." Elijah turned back toward Dean, glowering. "But then that townie boy had to stick his dick where it didn't belong."

"But she was just a little girl." Bits and pieces were coming back to Dean as his head began to clear. The more he remembered, the more nervous he got. He needed to get back to Sam. The door opened and Sully lumbered in, fairly dragging his knuckles on the ground. He scowled at Dean.

"Seph knew all along what would happen if she didn't stay pure. She knew good and well." Elijah stooped at the stove and drew out a long metal rod. The end, which glowed eerie orange-red, was shaped into an intricate sigil an inch across, but Dean couldn't read it, what with the terror clawing inside his chest. Elijah turned back, the gleam in his eye accented by the light of the glowing brand. "I'd venture you ain't so pure, but you'll have to do."

Elijah reached down and tugged up Dean's shirt, then hooked his thumb in Dean's belt-loop, pulling the denim away to expose the curve of Dean's right hipbone. "Best start prayin'," Elijah said, a hidden laugh in his voice. With that he thrust the brand against Dean's hip.

Dean clamped his jaw tight, feeling blood spurt as he bit down on his tongue. Heat seared his hip to the bone like a bolt of lightning, setting the nerves screaming. The sound of his skin popping and sizzling like meat in a pan made his stomach churn, and he swallowed back a wave of bile. The smell of burning flesh, nauseating and sweet, tickled his nose and he retched, trying to buck away from the searing touch of the brand.

He could hear the sound of a freight train clicking over the tracks somewhere nearby and he focused on the sound, trying to drown out the sizzle of his burning skin. He ground his teeth around a scream, instinctively refusing to give the men the satisfaction of hearing his pain.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Elijah pulled the brand away, taking little bits of charred and smoking skin with it. Dean fell back against the dirt, his head reeling, and couldn't stop a cry when his jeans rode up and scraped against the brand.

Elijah knelt at Dean's side and pulled a small silver flask from his back pocket. He unscrewed the lid with his thumb, and pressed the flask to Dean's mouth. Thick, lukewarm liquid caressed Dean's lips, but as he registered the taste he shuddered with revulsion. Blood. He spat, spraying a delicate pattern of crimson across Elijah's cheek. Elijah responded with a powerful right hand, lashing Dean across the face.

Sully dropped to his knees and grasped Dean's jaw in his massive paw of a hand, forcing Dean's mouth open. Dean tried to twist away but Sully's fingers cut like claws into his cheeks, and Dean was just too weak. Elijah again touched the flask to Dean's mouth, dribbling in the thick, clotted blood. Dean choked against the intrusion, but Sully clamped his hand over Dean's mouth and nose, cutting off his breath, and after a long moment of resistance Dean was forced to swallow. He did, however, manage a vicious bite to the meat of Sully's palm, causing the big man to howl with pain.

Elijah capped the flask, grinning like a canary-eating cat. "Most folks just don't realize the power of blood. Ya have it, that's life. Ya don't, that's death." He cocked his head, an oddly philosophical look crossing his face. "Some blood is better than others. Purer. Pure blood can even clean dirty blood, make the blood of a mutt like you mighty powerful." Elijah ducked his head to leer into Dean's face. "You won't make up for losin' Seph. But you'll be a start."

With those words, Elijah grabbed a rusted length of heavy chain and locked Dean's cuffs to the wall. The clicking of the train on the rails rose and fell in Dean's ears as he lay with his cheek pressed against the cold dirt floor. He forced every breath, in and out, in and out, trying to breathe away the flame at his hip and the taste of blood on his tongue. He heard the scuff of boots as Elijah and Sully left the hut and pulled the door shut behind them. Dean heard the heavy _clack_ of a padlock being closed.

Dean waited for what seemed an eternity, then opened his eyes. He rolled to a seated position, taking a long moment to collect himself and clear the pain from his mind. He gave an experimental tug on the chain connecting his cuffs to the wall, but gave up when it was clear that there was no give.

He took a deep breath and drew his knees to his chest, wincing as the burn on his hip throbbed. He stretched his arms out before him, and then placed one boot against each wrist, balancing his insteps against the edges of the cuffs. Setting his jaw, he pushed with all his strength, straining to straighten his legs. The metal of the cuffs ground and gouged at his hands, scraping raw gashes from the flesh, sending rivulets of blood to muddy the ground. He grunted against the pain, squeezing his fingers together and pushing harder still.

With a clatter that Dean fully expected to bring Elijah running, the cuffs shot from his wrists and crashed against the wall. Dean tucked both hands beneath his armpits, trying to ignore the throbbing in his wrists. He breathed deep, allowing the pain to collect beneath his sternum, pushing it into a roiling orb of anger and pain. He swallowed it down and stored it. He was going to pay it back, every bit of it. But first he was going to find Sam.

"Hang on, Sammy. I'm comin'."


	8. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the update delay. But luckily, the new season has alll sorts of ideas simmering aay in my brain, a few of which do not involve Dean, a hot shower, and a loofah. Um. Please review, thanks!**

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Sam bolted awake, torn from a dreamless sleep by the far-away slam of a door. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was, but then a twinge of pain in his knee brought memory back with a jolt. He brought a hand to his neck, wincing at the monster crick that seized in his muscles. Squinting in the dying light, he cursed himself quietly for falling asleep. _I might have a concussion, too…stupid to sleep._ He glanced around the room, and started as he saw Colleen sitting in the corner by the door, staring at him.

"Hi," Sam murmured. Colleen didn't reply, only tipped her head to the side slightly, like an inquisitive cat. "Your dad hasn't come back yet, huh?" A nearly imperceptible shake of the head.

After a long, silent moment, Sam took a breath and slowly began inching toward Colleen. He held her gaze, trying to radiate gentleness, safety, with his eyes. She didn't move, just watched him. Sam finally reached the end of his chain a few feet from the girl. He knelt and smiled up at her, forcing a pleading light into his eyes. Not that it took much forcing.

"Colleen. I think you know that this isn't right. I haven't tried to hurt you, right?" Colleen shook her head again, blinking slowly. "All I want is to get my brother and go." As he mentioned Dean, a cold fist of fear knotted in Sam's stomach. "We'll leave and you won't see us again, and all this trouble will be over." He paused, not wanting to put his thoughts into words. "Don't let them do to him what they did to your sister."

Colleen just looked down at Sam with sad eyes, the corners of her mouth curving down and trembling. Sam met her gaze, trying to swallow down his own sadness at the horror that the girl had obviously been subjected to. "I bet you and your sister were friends, huh? Best friends. I bet you told each other things that you never told anybody else." A slick of tears glistened in Colleen's eyes, but she didn't look away from Sam. "I bet you would have done anything to help her." Sam felt tears of his own threatening and blinked them away. "Well, he's my brother. And he's my best friend. And I need to help him. Please."

After what seemed like ages, Colleen slowly raised one hand and softly touched the bun at the nape of her neck. She then stretched her hand out toward Sam. He opened his palm to her. Into his waiting hand she dropped a gleaming black bobby pin. Sam closed his fingers around it with a rush of gratitude. "Thank you," he whispered, and she acknowledged him with a small, pained smile. One single tear dropped from her lashes and traced a shining path down the curve of her cheek.

Sam unbent the hairpin with his teeth, and angled his wrist so he could fit the pin into the keyhole. After a moment of fiddling he felt the cuff loosen, and he slipped his wrist out. The second went easier, and he spent a few seconds rubbing the bruises that circled his wrists like ugly rainbows. He stood, relishing a quick stretch, and then reached his hand out to Colleen again. "Come on." She stared at him, eyes wide and worried, but then slowly reached out and tucked her little hand into Sam's big one.

Sam opened the door a crack, just enough that he could make a quick scan of the area. The area appeared deserted, and the only sound was the rhythmic _click and clack_ of a train that was passing along the rails just beyond the perimeter of the camp. Colleen squeezed his hand tighter and gave a little tug. He turned to look at her, and caught sight of Sully lumbering along with a heavy length of chain in his hand, heading toward a ramshackle hut. Colleen tugged Sam's hand again and pointed urgently at Sully.

"I see him." Sam pulled Colleen by the hand, dashing to duck behind a pile of stacked cordwood. He reached down and grasped the whistle that was still dangling from Colleen's neck, then ducked his head and blew a short, shrill blast. He ducked back and grasped Colleen by the shoulder. "Stay here, I'll come back for you." She grabbed him by the shirtsleeve but he pulled away. "It's okay, I promise, just stay here."

With that, he darted from behind the woodpile. He heard Sully give a gruff shout, and then caught the sound of heavy footsteps pounding after him. He planted his heel and skidded sideway, sliding behind another concrete block building. He could hear Sully coming, puffing like a steam engine, and quickly looked around for a weapon. All he could find was a fist-sized rock, so he palmed it, curling his fingers tightly around it.

As soon as Sully's belly preceded him around the corner of the building, Sam pounced. He knocked the bigger man to the side, landing atop him and flailing once with the rock. Sully instinctively raised an arm, blocking the blow, and sent Sam flying with a sweep of his other arm. Sam landed awkwardly, twisting his already protesting knee, and Sully was on him before he could recover.

With a practiced movement, Sully flung the chain toward Sam, catching him in the throat. He caught the other end and backed Sam up, lifting him bodily up against the cold blocks of the wall. The man's strength was terrifying. Sam grasped the chain with his free hand, trying to pry it loose, but Sully's grip was like iron and he just pushed Sam against the wall with more force. Sam gasped, stars swimming in his peripheral vision. With his last remaining strength, he lifted his knee and rammed it directly into Sully's crotch.

Sully released Sam with an exhalation that sounded vaguely fatal, and dropped to one knee, clutching his injured goods. Sam dropped with him, greedily sucking air, then managed to body check Sully and knock him fully to the ground. As quickly as he could, Sam rolled sideways, coming to rest with his knee planted across Sully's throat.

"Where's my brother?" Sam rasped, his voice gravely from trauma. Sully just gagged, his face flushing an unnatural purple. "Where is he?" Sam twisted his knee, grinding it into Sully's Adam's apple, and Sully sputtered. He raised a shaking hand and pointed across the clearing to a broken down shed constructed of plywood and scrap wood. "He's in there?" Sully nodded as best he could without further cutting off his air supply. "Thank you." With those words, Sam slammed the rock that he still clutched in his fist down onto Sully's temple.

Sam knelt there for as long as he dared, breathing hard. He scrubbed an arm across his eyes, wiping away the stinging sweat, then grabbed Sully by his beefy hands and began to drag him back toward the tree line. When he reached it he quickly searched to see if Sully might be carrying a weapon. No such luck. With one last heave, Sam dumped the man's body in a pile of dead bracken and threw a blanket of leaves and branches over him.

Sam crept along through the trees, trying to get as close to the shack where Dean was being held as he could without being seen. His knee was throbbing and his throat was raw, and he was getting just plain pissed. He glanced backward and could see Colleen peeking at him over the top of the woodpile, her face worried. He gestured for her to get back down, trying to smile that he was okay, and she slowly sank from sight until only her eyes and the top of her head were visible. Figuring it was the best he was going to get, Sam turned away and continued creeping toward the building where his brother was being held.

Payback was going to be a bitch.


	9. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the wait on the update...had some family issues to take care of. Thanks to all who have reviewed so far, they mean so much to me. :)**

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Dean crouched beside the stove, clutching the branding iron. He kept the tip of the iron in the fire, mesmerized by the orange glow of the sigil. His eyelids kept drifting shut, unconsciousness niggling at the edges of his vision, and he occasionally slapped lightly at the brand on his hip. The stinging pain kept him awake, kept him aware, drove off the threat of oblivion.

Just when he was sure he couldn't stay awake any longer, his ear caught the sound of approaching boot steps. Silently, he drew the iron out of the fire and moved quietly to the door, blinking away the pounding behind his eyes.

As soon as the door creaked open and Elijah stepped into view, Dean swung the iron, connecting squarely with Elijah's left eye. Elijah's shriek drowned out the sizzle of skin, but a satisfying puff of acrid smoke rose, stinging Dean's throat. Elijah lashed out, fists clenched, and Dean ducked back, then dropped a shoulder and rushed the blinded man. He caught Elijah in the midsection and lifted him like a linebacker, crushing him back against the door.

Gasping as the wind was knocked from his lungs, Elijah managed to lift a knee and strike Dean square in the chest, then drop an elbow across the back of his neck. Dean dropped to his knees, still clasping his arms tightly around Elijah's legs. He pulled backward, tipping onto his ass, and Elijah followed, flailing as he fell to the dirt.

Dean kicked out blindly, his boot connecting with Elijah's crotch and Elijah let out a gagging grunt and curled into a quivering lump. Dean rolled to his feet and bolted for the door, willing his legs to move. He burst out into the sunset, eyes smarting in the light, and pelted toward the fence. A familiar shout brought him to a skidding halt and he nearly fell.

"Dean!" Sam came flying around the corner of a block building, sprinting toward Dean. Dean held out an arm and Sam stumbled to a stop, grasping him by the elbow. "You okay?" panted Sam, searching Dean over for injury. Exhaustion and pain slammed Dean like a Mack truck and he gratefully sagged against Sam's strong shoulder, just breathing.

Relief was short-lived as Dean heard the pounding of Elijah's oncoming feet. "He's coming, gotta run," he gasped. Sam hooked his shoulder under Dean's arm and hitched him closer to his hip, and they began to half-run, half-stumble toward the edge of the camp. Dean faltered, the strength leaving his legs, and Sam dashed forward, almost dragging Dean, and they managed stumble into the woods. Sam lowered Dean to the ground and crouched to catch his own breath. "You okay?"

Dean winced and nodded, breathing deeply to collect his wits and his strength. "Where's the car?"

"No idea. Our best bet is probably to get off into the woods…get back to town."

Dean pursed his mouth and growled, "I'm not leaving the car, Sammy." He gritted his teeth around a groan of pain as his jeans rubbed against his burn and he shifted, grimacing.

Sam opened his mouth to rebuke his brother, but as he glanced down at Dean, his eyebrows rose. Dean's shirt had ridden up and the edge of his brand was peeking out from the waist of jeans. Sam hooked a thumb in Dean's belt loop and gently pulled the denim away from Dean's hip. "What the hell is that?"

Dean grunted, tugging away from Sam's touch. "Elijah gave me somethin' to remember him by." Sam squinted down at the mark.

"Jesus, Dean, that mark…"

Dean's brow furrowed. "What's it say?"

"It says 'sacrifice'." Sam shook his head, his jaw tightening with anger. "Those bastards were going to sacrifice you."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again." Dean groaned as he pushed himself back to his feet. "Demons I get. People are crazy." He started to stumble further into the woods, but Sam suddenly stopped him, looking back toward the camp.

"Wait. What about Colleen?"

"Who?" Dean winced and wrapped an arm across his aching ribs.

Sam didn't answer, just skulked back toward the treeline. "Sam!" Dean hissed, then followed with a groan. "What the hell, man?"

Sam glanced around quickly before sprinting out of the trees and back toward the woodpile. But as soon as he made it halfway there, Elijah came dashing around a corner, heading for the building where Sam had been held. He caught sight of Sam and skidded to a halt, mouth falling open with indignant rage. His hand came up as he whirled to point his pistol at Sam, and Sam ducked instinctively, waiting for the hot pain of a bullet in his flesh.

But Dean was already on the run, sprinting toward Elijah. He rushed in, head down, and tackled Elijah. Both men went crashing to the dirt and a gunshot cracked the air.

Sam ran toward the tussling pair, his heart pounding. A train was rumbling down the tracks toward the camp, its whistle shrieking, wheels screaming metal against metal. Dean was wrestling Elijah, both struggling for control of the gun, grunting with the effort. Another shot pinged by Sam, close enough for him to feel the breeze of its passing, and he ducked involuntarily, hands flying to shield his head.

A flash of movement caught Sam's eye and he whirled to see Colleen sprinting toward them, skirt and hair flying with her speed. Her eyes were wide, riveted on her father and Dean as they wrestled for the gun, and she didn't even seem to hear the oncoming train. Sam opened his mouth to scream at her, to stop her, but she dashed onto the tracks.

The sound would haunt Sam's memory forever.


	10. Chapter 9

**I'm terribly sorry for the wait on this. I've been painting the house, and it pretty much has monopolized my time. But thanks for your patience...please review, it helps prod my writing mojo! And Salty, there's one line in here for ya...wonder if you'll see it...**

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Sam screamed, horror overcoming machismo as he watched Colleen's body disintegrate in a cloud of red. The sound was a shock, the noise of breaking bones and bursting organs and splashing blood. The train's whistle screamed along in inanimate shock, and the brakes threw showers of white sparks to mingle with the misty blood. Sam stumbled backward as a spray of blood speckled his face, salty on his lips.

A howl of sheer anguish sent a shiver up Sam's spine and he turned to see Elijah on his hands and knees, his face contorted in a wail. Dean crawled away from him, scrambling in the dirt, pain in his eyes. Sam sprinted to Dean's side and grabbed him by the elbow, hoisting him to his feet. But when they turned to flee, they found themselves staring down the barrel of Elijah's pistol.

Tears were streaming down the man's face in a torrent, but he didn't seem to notice. His lips were curled back in a feral snarl and there was rage in his eyes. "You!" His voice was low, dangerous. "You damned fools…you killed my daughter…"

Dean opened his mouth to retort angrily, but Sam gripped his wrist and silenced him with a sideways glance. Dean glanced to the side and saw several faces, young girls and boys mostly, peeking at them from around the corners of buildings, from behind vehicles. All were wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring at the spectacle in front of them.

"No." Sam held up one hand, though his eyes never left the gun. "No, we didn't. It was an accident. We didn't do that."

"You did!" Elijah's voice cracked into the higher reaches and spittle flew from his mouth. "All we want is for people to leave us alone! If you would have just left us alone my daughters would still be alive!" Anger overwhelmed him and he slapped his own head with another scream. "You sonsabitches wouldn't mind your damn business! It's your fault!"

Sam didn't need to say anything, just keep his hand on Dean's shoulder. Three light but noticeable changed in the pressure of his fingers, _one, two, three_, and both suddenly burst into action, rolling away from one another and to their feet. Sam dashed forward, shoulder low, aiming for Elijah's midsection. The retort of a gunshot cracked through the air and Sam gasped as the stinging burn of a bullet graze blazed in his arm. He stumbled, falling to one knee, and recovered by rolling through the fall back to his feet. As he did, he caught sight of Dean pelting toward Elijah and catching him by the midsection. The gun went off again as the two fell to the ground, a cloud of dust rising to obscure their movements as they wrestled.

Sam pushed himself back to his feet, swallowing down the nausea from the pain in his shoulder, and started to stumble toward the brawl. He glanced backward, making sure that none of the other cult members were sneaking behind him. When he returned his eyes to the front, he froze.

Elijah was kneeling over Dean, his face twisted into a mask of fury. He had the pistol pressed to the center of Dean's forehead, just over the bridge of the nose. Dean was stone still, eyes staring up at Elijah, not daring to twitch. The cold metal burned a ring against his forehead and he blinked slowly, willing his breath to slow, forcing himself to radiate calm. Elijah's finger twitched on the trigger and Dean had to suppress a wince. One misstep, one mistake, and Dean's brain would be splattered across the dirt.

"Not another step," Elijah hissed towards Sam, though his eyes never left Dean. "Ya'll have caused enough trouble. You outsiders killed two of ours. You ain't gonna kill any more."

Anger grabbed at Sam's chest. He leaned slightly forward, his mouth curling into a snarl. "Most fathers would be mourning now…they'd be devastated about losing their daughters. You're standing here casting judgment, when you're the one who caused their deaths in the first place. You're the one who cut Persephone from wrist to elbow, you're the one who didn't help her while she bled to death."

Elijah whipped his arm back and belted Dean across the temple with the gun, opening a crimson gash in the skin. Dean crumpled to the side with a sharp groan, and Sam took several steps toward Elijah. Elijah brought the gun to bear on Sam, his hand shaking. Sam froze, waiting for the burning bite of another bullet, but then noticed that Elijah's gaze was fixed somewhere over his left shoulder, and his mouth was formed into a trembling 'o'. Sam slowly turned, keeping his eyes on Elijah, then cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

Colleen and Persephone were standing there, hands flat at their sides, staring narrow-eyed at Elijah. Their pale faces were dark with anger, but they were unmarked by the wounds that killed them. Sam looked back toward Elijah, watched as the man's face paled to a pallor of terror, and as a blur of red welled in his eyes, and twin tears of blood tracked slowly down his cheeks. Trails of blood oozed from his nostrils, dripping to line his lips with gruesome color. Elijah gave a wet hiccup, then looked down stupidly as blood splashed from his mouth to paint the front of his shirt. The gun in his hand wavered then fell as his fingers went numb, and he dropped to one knee.

Sam dashed forward and scooped up the gun, then skidded to Dean's side. He pulled Dean upright, ignoring his brother's attempts to bat his hands away. Sam grabbed him under the arms and started dragging him back away from Elijah and the specters of the dead girls.

Elijah didn't speak, and neither did his daughters. They just stared at one another, until Elijah lurched and another gout of blood spurted from his mouth. He tilted sideways, eyes never leaving the girls, and sprawled limply in the dirt, gurgling quietly deep in his throat. He stared, jaw slack, and a bubble of blood lingered on his lips before bursting with a wet, pink, pop. His chest heaved once, and then sank with the wilting finality of his last breath.

Sam glanced around quickly as movement caught his eye. The silent spectators who had watched from the periphery crept closer, but they ignored the brothers and stared wide-eyed at the blood-soaked body of their leader. Sam tucked the pistol down the back of his jeans and hauled Dean to his feet. He supported his brother's weight against his hip and stumbled toward the stockade fence, though he wasn't sure what he would do once he got there.

But then Sam heard footsteps behind him and he turned quickly, his free hand snatching the pistol from his waistband. He found himself staring down the barrel at a young man, patchy with acne and downy facial hair. The teenager looked back at him with huge, wide eyes, then stretched his hand out toward Sam. In his palm lay a set of keys, Dean's keys. Cautiously, Sam reached out and plucked the keys from his hand, and quietly said, "Thank you." The boy didn't respond, just blinked silently, and pointed away toward the trees. "The car is over there?"

A nod was the only reply.


	11. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the delay. First I had writer's block, then the hamster-on-a-wheel who runs my computer went claws up. Thanks for your patience!**

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Sam collapsed against the Impala and slid to a seat in the dirt, grasping his arm. He smeared away the blood with his palm, trying to assess the damage, wincing as a blaze of pain shot up his arm and into his chest. The bullet had grazed a furrow across the top of his bicep, which was oozing blood, but the wound didn't appear to be serious. Just hurt like a sunuvabitch.

Dean stumbled to his side and knelt, smoothing his hand across Sam's arm to clear the blood away. "Y'okay?" he slurred, and Sam pulled away.

"It's just a graze. I'm fine." Sam turned his head, hearing the far-off wail of sirens. "The train conductor must have called the police." Dean leaned sideways, opening the rear door of the car and rummaging through the back until he came up with the tackle box that they used as a first aid kit. Unrolling a strip of bandage, he tore it with his teeth. He pressed a square of gauze against Sam's torn flesh and wrapped it tightly, then tied the bandage off with a messy square knot. His own blood left muddy brown fingerprints on the white fabric.

"Let's get out of here. We don't need the cops askin' questions," said Dean gruffly, reaching to help Sam to his feet. But he stumbled sideways, wavering on his feet, and had to lean against the car to stop himself falling. Sam looked at his brother's face, which was painted with dried and fresh blood. His eyes were bleary and unfocused.

"You're not driving," Sam ordered, reaching for the keys.

"The hell I'm not," retorted Dean.

"You probably have a concussion, Dean. You're not driving." Sam snatched the keys from Dean's shaking hand. To his surprise, Dean didn't argue, just stumbled to the passenger side of the car and collapsed into the front seat.

Sam folded himself into the driver's seat and turned the key, and the Impala roared, engine rumbling. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of the window and winced. He looked like he had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ wearing steel-toed boots. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and a colorful bruise was spreading down his temple to his cheekbone. Dried blood snaked along his hairline. Sam shook his head, slammed the car into drive and floored the accelerator, spinning the wheels and spitting rocks behind them as the car fishtailed into motion.

Sam leaned back, thumping his head against the headrest and sighing loudly. He grasped his bicep, trying to squeeze away the throbbing of pain. "Shit." Dean didn't reply, only nodded. Sam glanced in his rearview and caught sight of the oncoming strobes of police cars and an ambulance. He spun the steering wheel and stamped the accelerator, speeding away from the compound, from the questions.

Sam shut his eyes for a second and ground his teeth to swallow down the pain flaring in his arm. He soon opened his eyes, though, not because he was driving but because each time he closed them he saw Colleen evaporating in a burst of blood and bone. He ran a palm over his mouth, tasting bitter bile in the back of his throat, and mumbled, "The girl…"

"Don't." Dean cut him off tersely. He grasped the neck of his t-shirt and pulled it up to wipe blood away from his mouth. "Leave it be, man."

"How can you say that?" Indignation sharpened Sam's tone into a shrill bark. "We just watched a little girl get annihilated by train, I watched her fucking _head_ explode." He shook his head. "Leave it be," he repeated, disgusted.

Dean dug a knuckle into his eye, scraping away a crust of blood from the corner. "Why? What does reliving it do for her? What does it do for you?" He clenched his jaw. "It won't bring her back, and all it does for you is steal your sleep."

Sam looked at Dean, brow furrowed. He wanted to argue, but somehow he didn't have the energy. And in his heart, he wished he _could _forget, could exorcise the memory of Colleen's face. He knew that she would appear in his dreams, wake him with cold sweat in the quietest hours of the night. He wished he _could _leave the memory behind.

"You know what scares me?" Dean's voice was suddenly quiet, and he didn't look at his brother. Sam wasn't sure that he wanted to know and he pressed the accelerator harder, pushing the Impala's speed to well over the legal limit, as though trying to outrun the horror they were leaving behind. "We've spent our whole lives fighting demons, fighting spirits and monsters and freaks. Our whole lives have been about fighting the things that nobody else knows about, the things from the other side."

Sam said nothing.

"But all these things that we've killed, all the evil that we've stopped…there's still these crazy people doing the same evil and worse." Dean finally turned his head to look at Sam. "What are we supposed to do about it? Are we supposed to start hunting people, hunting humans who are doing these evil things? Are we supposed to kill them, too?" Dean shook his head and stared back out at the road in front of them. "When does it stop?"

Sam stayed silent, a little shocked to hear Dean saying the things that he himself had long wondered about. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "But I think that all we can do is keep doing what we do. All our lives Dad taught us to protect people. If we cross that line, what will we become? Where will the next line lie, and when will we cross it?"

"Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die." Normally Sam would have been shocked to hear the quote out of the mouth of his rough-and-tumble brother, but the sentiment was so correct that he remained silent. The brothers just stared silently out the dusty windshield as the countryside flashed by.

"**And these children that you spit on**

**As they try to change their worlds**

**Are immune to your consultations **

**They're quite aware**

**Of what they're going through."**

**-David Bowie**


End file.
